


Family Business

by Lisgreomg



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Fun, Multi, self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisgreomg/pseuds/Lisgreomg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean honestly has no idea how this bullshit keeps happening to him. He’s fucking fifty two years old. That is too fucking old to be dealing with werewolves and hunters that want to eat his kid. </p><p>AU xover where Dean Winchester is Sheriff Stilinski, taking place in the far future of the SPN world (canon as far as season 6, with some reference to season 8) and sometime in the middle of 3A for TW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was entranced by this post that I found over at saucefactory's tumblr. So I suppose I owe everyone who talked about it here for finally making me write it. http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/44218486448/umbralillium-neierathima-umbralillium

Dean honestly has no idea how this bullshit keeps happening to him. He’s fucking fifty two years old. That is too fucking old to be dealing with werewolves and hunters that want to eat his kid. Hell, thirty would have been too old to deal with that crap. He pumps his trusty sawed off as he takes stock of the scene in front of him. A dozen eyes turn to him immediately. The wolves and hunters sneer, Stiles looks more terrified than he did when the creepy Alpha werewolf was bad touching his neck. Well, never let it be said that his kid doesn’t have his priorities straight. 

“Gentleman.” He says, then adds, “And ladies” when he notices Allison Argent behind a tree with a bow drawn. It’s not clear who or what she’s aiming at. “I’m not quite sure how many laws you’re all breaking right now, but if I had to guess I would have to say a lot. Probably more. So let’s all calm the fuck down and put our weapons and claws and teeth away how ‘bout it?”

Allison lowers her bow, just a little, and Derek Hale’s claws shrink away. Next to him Isaac Lahey does the same, and in the middle of all of it Scott shakes off his fur as well. Chris doesn’t seem to be as inclined to lower his gun, it’s still pointed at Peter Hale, who’s leaning up against a tree and smirking like this is the most fun he’s had in a long time. The other alphas, of course, pay him no attention. The leader of the alphas - the alpha alpha? Alfalfa Dean decides - smirks at him, and puts his hair away, but not the claws, lazily, something insulting about the very movement. “And why should we listen to -”

Dean, bored with the alfalfa already, shoots him full in the chest without warning, sending him straight to the ground, “Opps. Sorry. I thought you were going to say ‘stupid human’. But I’m sure it was something more polite.”

The rest of the alpha pack obviously have no idea how to deal with a direct attack on their alfalfa, couching back as if to spring at him, but obviously unsure if they should without a direct order. Which probably won’t be coming any time soon Dean judges, from the black sludge already pouring from the alfalfa’s mouth. He pumps the shotgun again just to further discourage them, “No look, I don’t have any problems with you werewolves or vampires or motherfucking Gods, until you start hurting humans. Especially my kid. Now from what I can tell from the papers tacked all over my house,”

“Oops.” Stiles says, sounding shamefaced. 

“Oops?” Derek Hale hisses, “Are you kidding?”

Dean tries desperately not to laugh at his kid, who’s pretty much the greatest ever, “you all haven’t actually killed anyone. Not for sure anyway.”

Chris Argent has tensed, looking around, “Sheriff, this really doesn’t concern you.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, and snorts heavily, “Granted I’ve been out of the hunting game for about sixteen years, but I’m pretty sure I know a damm lot more about this shit than you Argent.”

“Wait what?” Stiles says.

Dean grimaces, and points viciously at Stiles, “ _You_  were supposed to not get involved with any of this. I swear to God our family is cursed.”

“That’s for sure.” Sam says, coming through the other side of the clearing, Deaton and the creepy school therapist lady held at gunpoint.

“Uncle Sam?” Stiles says, sounding even more surprised.

Dean will deal with Stiles later, “What are they?”

Sam raises an eyebrow and holds up an angel sword in response. Deaton looks sheepish, strange therapist lady’s expression doesn’t change, “Mother fucking angels are you fucking kidding me? What the hell is with this town?”

“Angels?” Scott says. Chris Argent’s gun has finally dropped far enough to point straight at the ground. Peter Hale has stopped smirking, which Dean was beginning to think wasn’t even possible. In fact Peter looks a little poleaxed. 

“Castiel sent me.” The therapist lady says, Dean wishes he could remember her name, “I was tasked with the mission of protecting your son.”

“What?” Stiles says, voice hitting that special high pitched level of confusion that usually precedes a frantic rant.

Sam is smirking a little, as he pokes hard at Deaton’s back, Deaton rolls his shoulders in a way that Dean knows means he’s readjusting his wings, “I was granted permission to fall after you faced Lucifer on the Final Battlefield.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. Castiel had told him that many angels had chosen to have their powers bound after Michael and Lucifer jumped, some crazy urge to learn about humanity ‘on their level’ or whatever; Dean hadn’t really been paying attention. Probably they all just wanted to avoid the following heavenly war anyway. After they sealed off Hell with the magic tablets most had chosen to go back to Heaven as far as Dean’s aware. The therapist lady isn’t surprising at all, Castiel is totally just enough of a sneaky bitch to know exactly where Dean’s been this whole time. He’s also exactly just the right kind of bastard to not come down himself.

Now Argent is giving him strange looks. He looks really pale actually, when he finally flicks the safety back on his gun, “Something tells me Stilinski isn’t really your last name.”

Sam snorts out a chuckle, because he’s an annoying bastard that Dean really should have let die a long time ago, “Nope.”

“What?” Stiles says, faintly. He looks like he’s going to keel over. Derek shifts to stand behind him, Dean tries not to grimace.

He sighs, heavily, “I’m sure you’ve already guessed Argent. Hale.” He says, nodding at Peter, who looks like he desperately wants to get out of here, “But a long time ago my name used to be Dean Winchester. Yes that Winchester, yes those Winchester Gospels. Probably all the stories you’ve heard are true.”

“And how.” Sam mutters, because he’s the absolute worst.

“I’m just going to -” Peter says, pointing off at something, and then disappears like he was never there. Dean scowls.

“‘Fraidy cat. We’ll get him later.” Sam assures him, nudging the two angels more firmly into the clearing. Then he goes back for Allison. The girl, obviously having no idea what’s going on, reaims her bow at him, making him stop, holding up his hands. He’s smirking like he’s amused, and Dean is a little too. Of all the ways Sam has died being shot by a baby hunter with a fucking bow and arrow would probably be the most hilarious.

“Put the bow down Allison!” Argent sounds scandalized, and he hooks his gun into his holster, smiles at Dean in that vaguely freaky worshipful way that some of the angels get around Cas. Allison gives her father an amazing incredulous look, but does put her bow down, and follows Sam back into the clearing.

“Ok.” Dean claps his hands, ignores the way Argent is looking at him and trying to edge closer, “So. What to do about the werewolves?” Derek tenses a little from where he’s supporting Stiles almost completely. Poor kid. He’s pretty much just mouthing ‘what’ over and over. Well he can deal with being shocked, call it payback for that heartstopping bolt of fear that had gone through him when he’d finally gone snooping in his room and found a fucking Bestiary, “The bad werewolves.” He clarifies. “Can either of you like,” he waves, “defang them or see if they’re guilty or something? I hate killing kids for no reason.”

The bad werewolves are looking confused. It’s probably not helped when the alfalfa lets out a gasping hacking cough and finally kicks it at their feet. Dean nudges him with his foot, but he’s definitely dead. Well that’s alright, from Stiles’s notes he was definitely the worst. 

The therapist lady cocks her head in that angel way that makes something long buried clench tight and hard in Dean’s chest. He ignores it. “We could read their souls.”

Dean and Sam grimace in unison, “We could-” Sam starts.

“I’m not killing them unless they attack someone.”

“Well you could -”

“Nope.”

“Dean.”

Dean scowls fiercely at his stupid brother, then turns to face the three alpha werewolves, “Alright. As you have just seen I killed your alfalfa with very little effort.”

“Jesus Christ he really is your father.” Dean hears Derek mutter darkly. He should have known Stiles had already stolen alfalfa. 

He soldiers on, “I don’t give a shit what the three of you do with your lives from this point on but Beacon Hills is  my  town, and if you come back with back up or whatever I will make sure you don’t leave alive. Run away.”

The twins trade glances, then look at the body on the ground, before doing the smart thing and running off into the woods. The other two consider for a moment longer, before slinking off in alternate directions. Then Dean is left with his brother, his son, two angels, two hunters and a pack of wolves. He claps his hands, “Well. That took care of that. Who wants a beer?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the great response to the first chapter! :D I'm having lots of fun with this, and I hope you guys continue to enjoy it.
> 
> Things researched in this chapter - route from Boulder CO to Salt Lake City, history of condoms, tortoises

He meets her in a bar. 

It’s two weeks since they used the magic tablets to lock off hell - Dean still does not understand how they can lock off hell and still send demons back down, but what the fuck ever, Sammy said it would work and he trusts him - and Dean’s shoulder still twinges where it was dislocated for the celebratory fiftieth time. It’s also two weeks from when Castiel fucked back off to heaven to ‘make amends’ and ‘heal what he destroyed’ or what the fuck ever. 

It’s a week since Sam announced that this is the light at the end of the tunnel, and that he’s not hunting anymore, and he thinks Dean needs a break too.

Sam, apparently, had been planning this for a while, knowing Sam probably since the hellhound. He’s taking the place up in Sioux Falls, he wants to build another roadhouse. There are a limited number of demons now, but the monsters are still out there. Besides, he says, he always liked the research part better, and Kevin is going to help him once his brain isn’t so fried. Sam gives this whole speech while Dean is fucked up on painkillers, because Sammy knows how to take advantage of a strategic weakness when he has to. He manages to leverage a promise out of Dean that he won’t go hunt anything for six months. That he’ll do something _fun_. And because Dean made the mistake of raising an almighty bitch of a brother, he calls everyday to make sure Dean’s not in the middle of a hunt.

So Dean is left to his own devices. For the first week he’d helped out at the house, lifting two by fours and figuring out which of the car carcasses that litter the yard might actually one day be able to run again. But Sam kept frowning at him and asking pointed questions about what Dean wanted to do. Over and over like a fucking broken record until finally something had burst out of him, raw, that he hadn’t even known was hiding, “I wanna see the Grand Canyon.” Because he never did get to go, and Sam grins like someone just handed him a puppy, and starts bouncing around, practically throwing Dean out of the house, shoving the Impala keys into his hand.

Dean heads south. He spends four days lounging in the desert like a lizard, soaking the sun into his bones. He climbs all the way down and all the way back up twice, without a guide, because why take the fun out of it?

It’s surprisingly beautiful for a hole in the ground.

After he’s had his fill he decides he wants a beach next, and heads west and north, crisscrossing over the Rockies again and again because he likes the way the engine sounds around the curves of the mountains, and it’s not like he’s in a hurry. At a motel in Boulder he runs out of the salt in his bag, and rounds the trunk to get more, which is when he discovers that Sam has cleaned out everything - except salt and a single hex bag. Dean’s first instinct is anger, but right on the heels of that is a relief so deep it almost makes his knees buckle. He has his favorite knife and his favorite gun in his duffle of course, couldn’t sleep without them under his pillow, but aside from that there’s nothing. Not so much as a silver bullet rolling around on the floor. Instead of the fear he would have bet he’d feel at the concept, there’s only a release of tension that goes straight from the top of his head to his toes. For the first time in his existence, he realizes, there is not a single thing actively after him.

He sleeps straight through checkout that night and has to buy another day.

He sticks Houses of the Holy into the player and cranks up The Ocean as he spirals back down the west side of the mountains, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Eight hours later he drives straight through Salt Lake City and keeps going and going, the I-80 stretching out in front of him forever. He stops at a postage stamp of a town in Northern Nevada, continues on the next morning, blowing past Reno. He wants to avoid the larger cities, not wanting the crush of humanity after the last week of solitude, and takes the 395 north. He ends up in Beacon Hills, in a bar, listening to a woman giving what sounds like a speech to the bartender about - he listens more intently - yes, she’s talking about the invention of the condom.

”I mean guys complain now about loss of sensation but in the fifteenth century people in Japan used _tortoise shells_ I still don’t even understand how that would even work!” She squints off into the distance. The bartender looks both terrified and resigned, like this has happened before. “Tortoises are weird. They live for like, ever, and just crap their eggs out on a beach and fuck off. Then the babies chew their way out of their eggs and look around but oops, no one’s there. Depressing.”

She stops talking, and the bartender bursts in, “For the love of God Claudia I just asked what you wanted to drink.”

”Whisky please.” She says, unconcerned with his outburst. There’s a strange urge in Dean’s stomach to have that drink put on his tab, but he doesn’t move. Instead he sits at the bar, listening to her rant about increasingly bizarre things, thoughts swirling in a way that he can’t follow, but is extremely amusing. She meanders from the history of soup - seriously - to why Canadians are thought to be polite. The bartender escapes from the conversation sometime around the part about the bats, and she just continues talking, it’s about eight minutes before she realizes that she’s now talking to him.

”Do you think snakes have feelings?” she asks, looking over at him, and he gives this due consideration.

”Definitely. I was just down in Arizona and let me tell you those fuckers can get pretty pissed off.”

Her eyes light up, and Dean notices for the first time what an amazing color they are, reminding him of the walls of the Grand Canyon a third of the way up, clay soaked in sun, “Do you travel a lot? I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

Dean smirks, and picks up his whiskey, moving to the seat next to her, she smiles wide, shifts to give him room, “Well I’m a drifter,” he explains, “I’ve been pretty much everywhere in the States. And I went to England two years ago.”

”A drifter huh?” She smiles, “That’s pretty cool.”

”Dean Winchester.” he says, offering his hand.

She shakes it firmly, smiling again, “Claudia Stilinski.”

Dean never makes it to the ocean. Not for a couple years anyway, and when they get there Claudia and Stiles find a fish skeleton on the beach and give him a lecture together on the history of the wishbone while he lazies in the sun, watching them both wave their hands around in the exact same way. He stares up at the sun drenched sky and smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean feels absolutely no guilt about using his hunter fame to make Argent handle the body while he drives home. He snags the Impala keys from Sam - he gave the Impala to Sam shortly after he and Claudia got married, a reverse wedding gift - and tosses the Jeep’s keys to Scott, slings an arm around his kid’s shoulder and gently drags him along. The Impala starts up with a gratifying growl as Stiles collapses into the passenger seat, still staring at him like his brain’s broken.

”So I was going to ask if you had any questions, only the drive isn’t long enough for the rant that’ll put you into. So I’ll sum everything up.” Stiles just blinks at him, but closes his mouth, and Dean has to figure out where to start, “When I was four a demon killed my mother,” he wonders if he should go into the family history of it, but that’s far too complicated for the moment, later he promises himself, Stiles shouldn’t be as surprised by it as they were, “and my father stumbled into the the world of hunting. While I was growing up it was small shit, ghosts and goblins, vampires and werewolves, the usual stuff.” Dean sees Stiles mouth ‘the usual stuff’ out of the corner of his eye but plunges on before he can start ranting, “But then it got,” he searches for a word that will describe the clusterfuck of those last seven years after Dad died, “complicated.” is the best he can do.

Stiles is still staring, “Why didn’t you ever tell me? Did Mom know?”

”Claudia knew. She didn’t really understand it, I don’t think, but she knew. I told her about it when she got sick.” And she had listened to all of it, calmly, and then refused to let him do anything that could heal her, had refused multiple times, convinced she could beat it on her own, convinced that letting him dip back into that life would only bring pain to them and put Stiles in terrible danger. Of course now it turns out that there are angels in his town, angels that have been there for a while and wolves that have lived here even longer, so it turns out that they weren’t as safe as they thought. Years ago he probably would have been angry about that, or flatly resigned, now he just let the thought float through him and releases it, “I never told you because - well, a lot of reasons. I know the whole thing tends to sound glamorous, but it isn’t. I don’t actually know how many times I’ve died” he admits, trying to think about it, “but it’s a lot. My whole family, including Sam, died too. My friends,” he says, thinking of Ellen and Jo, Benny, “were killed too. It’s an ugly way to live Stiles, and I didn’t want to tell you about it. I couldn’t take the chance that you’d end up in the middle of it.”

Stiles looks gutpunched at that, and Dean’s not sure what part of the speech caused that reaction, but he can guess because Stiles is his kid, and he knows how his mind works. Well, he knows enough anyway, “Of course I should have known better. You’re my kid and that means you’re probably destined for this stuff. Just like I was. We found out later that your grandmother, my mother, her entire family had been hunters as well. A few years after that we found out that your grandfather’s entire family had been involved in all of it too. All throughout history leading to us. And now you.”

Stiles considers that, fingers tracing over the bumps in the dash, “So I’m supposed to be a hunter?”

Dean snorts, “There’s no ‘supposed to be’,” that’s the truest lesson he learned with all this shit, “There’s ‘could be’ and maybe ‘should be’ and there’s what you’ve got in your blood, but you have free will kid. God may be a bastard but he knew what he was doing with that shit I think.”

Stiles is staring at him again, “God’s a bastard?”

Dean laughs, pulling into their driveway, “God is a huge fucking dick.”

Stiles stares at him, and scrambles out of the car when he gets out, “What exactly do you mean when you say complicated?”

Dean unlocks the front door, “I mean complicated. Maybe when you’re older I’ll let you read the gospels. I’ll probably have to edit them first, I’m full frontal in some of them.”

The way Stiles howls and clutches at his face at this fact is good for Dean’s soul, and makes him grin. Dean collapses into his armchair as Stiles collapses into the couch like a women from the eighteen hundreds in need of smelling salts. Dramatic wrist over his eyes included. Honestly, if Dean had been told what great fun it is to torment your children he would have signed up for the whole settling down thing way sooner.

”So you met God?” Stiles asks, a disbelieving tone in his voice.

”I’ve met a few.” Dean says, deciding not to mention the ones he’s killed in deference to the fact that Stiles’s brain might explode.

”Oh my -” Stiles breaks off, “well that phrase is really weird now. Oh holy crap - oops - I mean crap. I mean - shucks,”

”Shucks?” Dean repeats, trying not to laugh.

Stiles scowls fiercely at him, shoving himself upright as he speaks, “So God exists? So all those crazy people are right? Do people really go to hell for like - jerking off and stuff? Because I -”

”Stop!” Dean says, motioning sharply. Dean was a teenage boy once, he knows how that sentence is going to end, but it doesn’t mean he wants to hear about it, “Stop talking please.” Dean shoves himself out of his chair, deciding this conversation needs a beer, even if it’s just one of those gross low carb ones that Stiles guilts him into buying. He pops the top and drowns half of it before going back to the living room to finish the conversation, “There is a heaven, and there is a hell, and a purgatory.” He means to say that he’s been there done that, but the words stick in his throat, which is kind of embarrassing at this point. Besides, Stiles doesn’t really need to know that, “I have it on very good authority that most of the Bible is incorrect, masturbation isn’t a sin. Neither is being gay. I don’t know about anything else. You could ask Deaton I guess.”

Stiles squints at him, “So Deaton’s really an angel?”

Dean shrugs, “Fallen angel. It would explain how weird he is, and what’s her name. That kind of robot wrapped in a human all knowing terminator vibe.” Dean’s mind wanders towards Cas, and it must do something to his tone of voice because Stiles is giving him a look he’s never seen before. He clears his throat, shakes it off, firmly turning his mind away from Cas, “Seriously, any and all religious existential questions should go to the angels. Or your uncle. He’s a nerd like you, he probably picked up more of that crap than I ever did.”

Stiles stares blankly at him, before throwing himself back to lay on the couch again with a sound of terrible disgust, “You didn’t think that might be important information?”

Dean considers, picking at the label of his bottle with his thumb, “I suppose, at the time, I was pretty convinced I was going to hell no matter what, so it didn’t really matter to me.” He turns his thoughts from hell with the same practiced turn of denial that he uses to keep himself from thinking of Cas. “Also, there tended to be other things to think about.”

”Other things to think about!” Stiles says, in obvious disbelief. Dean really should have known that Stiles would be more bothered by the information he’s missed out on rather than the fact that Dean’s been keeping secrets for so long. That reminds him that he hasn’t been the only one keeping secrets, and he frowns down at his empty beer bottle.

”So Scott’s a werewolf.” He says, keeping his tone mild. Stiles winces, rubbing his hands over his hair. He’s wearing it longer now, and Dean is glad. He’d kept it short after Claudia had gotten sick, in some kind of solidarity. Dean thinks it’s probably a good sign that it’s been steadily growing out.

”Um. Yeah. Remember when Laura Hale’s body was found in the woods?” Stiles asks, and Dean sighs heavily, because fuck that’s a while ago but also the time about when things started to get weird with Stiles, so it makes sense. Stiles seems to take the sigh for acknowledgement, and blunders on, “Peter Hale bit him. He couldn’t really control it really well, so we went to Derek for help.” Stiles’s expressive face makes it clear how that went, and Dean can’t resist a small smile. Fuck but he loves his stupid kid.

Stiles explains every moment of the last year and a half carefully, only going on long tangents once or twice, both about Derek Hale, which Dean decides to ignore. For now. By the time Stiles wraps up it’s nearly two in the morning, and Dean has to work the next day. He stands, stretching out the kinks in his spine that have settled due to all the activity followed by sitting too long. “We’re not done talking about this, not by a long shot. But it’s too late and I can’t think anymore.” Dean raises his voice just slightly, “So go up to bed and there better not be any werewolves hanging out in your bedroom. I have more wolfsbane.” Dean listens intently for a moment, and sure enough there’s the quiet ‘shu-thud’ of Stiles’s window closing. He wonders if that was Scott or Derek, and decides he doesn’t want to know. Honestly he has half a mind to nail the thing shut.

”But I have more questions!” Stiles whines, pouting.

”So do I. Mostly about my losing my job and all the deputies that your friend Jackson got away with killing.” Stiles grimaces, guilty, dropping his head. “But it’ll keep till tomorrow. Sleep kid. It’s good for the soul.”

Stiles obviously is compiling a list of questions in his head. Dean figures he can hand over Dad’s journal as a starting place. He heads to his room, turning everything over in his mind. The trouble with telling anyone else everything about his past - anyone who wasn’t there - is that he has no idea where to start. With the Campbells and his mother’s deal? With the Winchesters and the Word? With the fire and yellow eyes, his father’s desperate vengeance? There’s simply too much to easily tell. Too many secrets and too many stories. He shoves his clothes into the hamper, wonders how Claudia would tell the story. Then he snorts because the answer is obvious. Claudia would tell it in one breath, starting chronologically with the Winchesters, then the Campbells, then sticking to Dean’s own timeline so that all the timetravel wouldn’t get too confusing. Dean’s not the same kind of storyteller though, for all that that’s probably the way Stiles would have understood it best.

He sighs heavily, getting into bed. He’ll figure it out in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

When Stiles gets up to his room he checks his phone before anything else. It'd been vibrating like crazy the whole time Dad had been talking to him. There are two from Scott, the first just says _Dude_ while the second says _Left ur jeep in driveway. Skype when ur dad lets u go?_. Stiles sighs and replies that he's going to bed, but he'll tell Scott everything later. There's a text from Allison as well, that says _Should we start a club do you think?_ which makes him snort. The My Family Hid Their Werewolf Killing Past and My Mother Is Dead Club does not sound like a fun time. He doesn't respond. Allison has made up for a lot of the shit she did last year, but her grandfather still tortured him in a basement for a couple hours. It's made the relationship between them a little awkward. Also her anti-Derek stance is super annoying. The dude's not a natural leader, as it turns out, but Stiles doesn't understand why everyone treats that as a major sin.

Whatever, he and Derek spent a crapload of time together this year. Scott was busy failing at being his own alpha. Turns out that being an alpha, even a stupid halfway one like Scott comes with a egotistical mania as a side effect. At least that's what Stiles assumes happened. Only thing that can explain why Scott was actually considering joining those motherfucking alphas. Stiles shakes the thought away. Probably that wasn't what was really happening. Scott had just stepped forward when Dad had shown up, maybe it had actually been step one in a sneaky attack plan. Stiles doesn't know because no one tells him anything. Except Derek.

Speaking of, that's who the last text is from. Stiles had tried to keep Derek under funny names in his phone - starting with the classic Sourwolf and degenerating to Eyebrows - but the dude honestly went through phones like Stiles went through Cheetos. Stiles suspected it had something to do with werewolf muscles and jeans that were far too tight. It had gotten to the point where Stiles just assumed any unknown number was Derek. _He probably wouldn't really shoot me, but not taking chances. Let me know if you want to talk or something._ Stikes sighs, considering what to say, _You heard all that? What do you think he meant about not knowing how many times he's died?_

The response is fast, _No idea_ proving old dogs can learn new tricks, _but Peter is really freaked out._ That makes Stiles swallow. Argents make Peter a little annoyed, what kind of badass hunter does his Dad have to be to actually be scary to the man? Probably one that talks about what a jerk God is like that's a normal thing to say. _That is not comforting._ He texts back, poking at his computer to wake it up. _Pretty sure comforting you isn't my job._ Derek replies, and before Stiles can respond to that level of bitchiness, another reply comes through, _turn off the computer and go to sleep._ Stiles snorts, _Are you backsliding back to creeperdom? Because we had just gotten to step eight and everything. I was really looking forward to the amends making._ There's no response to that for a little while, long enough that Stiles finds something called 'Ghostfacers' on YouTube that mentions a Sam and Dean Winchester. He's just wondering if he should be taking notes when Derek finally responds. _Go to sleep Stiles the Internet will probably still be there in the morning._ Stiles is torn between making a comment on Derek's optimism - where does he think the Internet is going to go that he says 'probably'? - and mocking him more for being a creeper when all the lights in his room go out with an abrupt whine. He blinks at the sad wifi symbol on his computer, and is just starting to get tense when his Dad's voice comes through the wall, "Go to sleep."

"Never should have let him have the bedroom with the fuse box." Stiles mutters to himself. His laptop has about an eight hour battery but with the wifi router dead it's basically a fancy paperweight. He shuts it off resentfully, shouts back, "You're going to answer all my questions in the morning!" but there's no response.

 _I get no respect_ he texts to Derek before stripping and falling into bed.

When he wakes up just past two the next day the response is waiting for him, and it makes him smile, _Tell me about it._ with an attached picture of Isaac drinking out of a carton of milk that clearly says 'Use A Glass' on the side in angry sharpie.

\--

Dean wakes up at six in the morning, cranky. He’d dreamt of the stupid pier at the lake again. Empty of course. It’s always empty and alone. He forces himself not to think about it, makes his way downstairs after flipping the breakers back on. Stiles will be dead to the world for another five hours at least. He makes a call to the office to tell them he’ll be working from home today and they can give him a call if they need anything. Sam is in the kitchen eating a grapefruit, Dean grunts a hello and starts up the coffee drip.

”I went with Argent to take care of the body, those woods are pretty thick. Salted and burned just in case he had a vessel but I doubt it.”

Dean pours himself a cup of coffee before the thing is done brewing, ignoring the way it hisses at him, “What happened to the halo brigade?”

Sam shrugs, “Deaton seems like one of the good ones I guess. Apparently he knew Talia Hale and promised her he’d take care of the Hale pack.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, “What a wonderful job he’s been doing.”

Sam snorts, “Yeah, right? But apparently she was the one that found him when he fell and they made a deal. She set him up with the fake ID and everything.”

”Well she was a lawyer with the county. Would have been easy enough I guess. Still, looks like he got all the pluses and her whole family got burned up.”

”And her brother went crazy and killed her daughter.” comes a voice from the staircase. Dean sees Sam flinch for his knife but it’s just Stiles, yawning and almost falling down the last stair. He scrubs a hand through his hair, making a face at the mess it’s in. He snatches the frying pan out of Dean’s hand, and starts pulling out things for breakfast. It’s all wheat toast and whole range egg whites and no bacon. Dean doesn’t know how his kid and Sam ended up so similar but he’d like to lodge an official complaint about it.

”Peter killed Laura?” Sam asks, because he wasn’t there last night.

”Yeah. He killed Laura and those three guys last year. He attacked Lydia at the prom. And then well...” Stiles frowns at the eggs, pokes them a few times with a spatula. Dean trades a look with Sam.

”Derek is the alpha right?” Sam asks gently.

”I - yeah. We all kinda helped. Me, Scott, Jackson and Allison. But Derek finished it. Anyway,” Stiles clears his throat, “I told Dad all this last night. I want to know more about you guys.”

”A demon killed our mother when I was six months old.” Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam’s tone, but doesn’t interrupt. Stiles stares at Sam even as he plates the food, handing a plate to each of them and taking one for himself. “It was an accident. She wasn’t supposed to die. He was there to feed me demon blood to prepare me to lead the apocalypse.” Stiles looks like someone’s hit him with a blunt instrument, and is staring at Sam rather than eating. “When I was 26 the demon took me and a bunch of other children that he’d prepared and-”

Sam gestures, and Dean finishes the thought, “He snagged them all and put them in a thunderdome. Last man standing was supposed to be the King of Hell’s army.”

Sam nods, and now it’s the part of the story that Dean can’t say aloud, “There were two of us left, when Dean finally found us. I turned my back at the wrong time and the kid sliced through my spine and killed me.” Stiles’s eyes have gotten really wide, and Dean feels a twist of misgiving. They shouldn’t be telling him about this. He’s too young, too smart, too _Stiles_. He’s his _kid_ and this is the ugliest story Dean knows. Sam continues on though, ignoring the misgivings that must be written all over his face. “Dean couldn’t deal with the idea of me being dead. He made a deal with a different demon to bring me back, in exchange for his soul after a year.” Stiles looks almost afraid now, looking at Dean like he’s going to drop dead right there.

”How’d you get him out of it?” Stiles asks, sounding afraid.

Sam looks down, coughs to clear his throat. Still guilty after all these years. Dean makes himself say it, “He didn’t. I was killed and went to hell. For four months. And then the angels pulled me out.”

Sam jumps right in again. Stiles is staring at his untouched breakfast, not looking at either of them, “It turned out that the angels are dicks. They were sick of waiting for the apocalypse and their promised paradise, and wanted to jump start it. There are seals on the cage that the devil is trapped in. Sending Dean to Hell broke one, and over the next year angels and demons worked together to break the rest.”

”A couple of the angels anyway. Some of them, well one, rebelled and helped us. They manipulated Sam into breaking the last one and then Lucifer burst out of his cage.”

Stiles drags his fork through the eggs, as Dean takes a break to drink his coffee, Sam does the same. There’s a moment of silence before Stiles asks, “The world didn’t end though.”

”No. We and a few of our friends, and” Sam flicks a glance at him, but keeps his tone mild, “the angel, we stopped it. Angels, like demons, can’t be on earth without inhabiting human bodies. The powerful angels, like Michael and Lucifer, they can only be contained in specific bodies called vessels. I was supposed to be Lucifer’s vessel and Dean was supposed to be Michael’s. But angels need permission. So we just kept saying no until I finally said yes at the right time and jumped back into the cage. Michael fell in too.”

Dean stands, and he’s really done with reliving this shit, “And then the angel we were working with yanked him back out of hell. We spent the next year looking for Purgatory, because the angels were having a civil war, but that was kind of boring, honestly.” Sam gives him the look that clearly says the he doesn’t buy Dean’s shit, but Dean’s been ignoring that look for as long as he can remember. He pours himself another cup of coffee and spits the rest out as fast as possible, “So we’ll jump to the end. There’s some tablets that God wrote down cheat codes to the universe on, one of which locked Hell off from earth. My idiotic brother decided that he was going to all that, so he did, and almost died a bunch of times, did die, was saved again by the angel, and then we both retired from the hunting monsters part of our lives. The end. Eat your food.”

They’re both staring at him now, that stare that makes his spine prickle. He shoves the coffee pot back into the thing and ignores them.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles hangs around the house for the absolute minimum amount of time he has to to stop his dad from getting worried. He asks for the Impala keys, because not asking for them would be weird, and is shocked when Uncle Sam actually tosses them over. He scrambles from the house, pretending that it’s only because he thinks they might rethink and take the keys back.

He slips into the wide front seat of the car, and starts the engine, can’t help the instinctive smile at the way the low growl of the engine echos through his bones. He checks the street behind him multiple times before finally pulling out. The car wants to accelerate as soon as they turn off his street, and who is he to deny her?

He traverses the side streets towards Scott’s house in half the time it usually takes, pulling into the driveway and cutting the engine with regret. He strokes the hood as he makes his way to the front door and resolves to take a drive out to the long stretches of deserted highway that border the preserve as soon as he’s done here.

No one answers when he knocks, but that’s why he made himself his own key ages ago, and he steps inside. He bounces up the stairs, and bursts into Scott’s room, only realizing once he enters that the house is echoing and empty, no one’s here. He looks around in confusion, before seeing Scott’s stupid tear-a-day calendar and realizes the date. He groans. It’s officially the first weekend after school is let out, traditionally the weekend where Scott’s Dad remembers he has visitation rights and Scott ends up having to spend four or five days in Cresent City. He pulls out his phone to confirm, _You head up to CC today?_

Scott’s response is gratifyingly fast, _Yeah. Left early, should be there soon. Mom thinks it’ll help me if I’m away from everything for a while. Wants me to stay for 2 weeks._

Stiles can’t actually argue with that. After this whole alpha pack clusterfuck Scott really does need to get his head on straight. Probably he could do without Stiles freaking out at him about all this over the phone. Stiles locks his phone and sticks it back in his pocket, looks around one more time, snags a reeses cup off the desk, and heads back out to his car, locking the door behind him.

Needing time to stop being a giant asshole will be good for Scott but leaves Stiles with no one to talk to about the fact that his Dad and his Uncle are famous apocalypse stopping super hunters with angel friends. Well, he promised himself a nice drive on the highways, so that’s what he’ll do. He slips into the Impala again and heads out.

He takes the curves faster than he should, but the car’s engine is significantly younger than its body, and it handles like a dream, twisting and growling around the road. Stiles has half a mind to take it off the road into the one dirt path that winds all the way through the preserve, but knows that there’d be hell to pay if he spatters the Impala with mud.

Ha. Hell. That’s funny.

He’s concentrating on driving so hard that he almost misses the way his breaths are hitching in his chest - that odd little hiccup where he can’t quite fill his lungs all the way. He hears it before he feels it, and by then it’s gone on almost too long, head already pounding. His lungs feel like they’re shrinking as his breath gets shallower and shallower. The muscles in his arms tingle, oxygen deprived, and the tingles spread, making his hands shake, his knees, his toes. He pulls over, quickly, slaps the hazard lights on and throws the car in park fingers shaking so badly he drops the keys somewhere when he turns the car off. He tries, desperately, to get himself under control enough to drag in a full breath but it won’t work, doesn’t go deep enough. He presses his hand against his chest, feels the thundering of his pulse, but the breath won’t come, getting stuck somewhere in his body. He knows he’s having a panic attack, but can’t think how to stop it, can’t possibly remember his lessons from therapy when the only thing he’s thinking about is breathing and the fact that his father can’t actually remember how many times he’s been dead. When he slams into unconsciousness he’s almost relieved. 

\--

Dean grabs a premade salad for lunch and does his best to ignore Sam’s smirk. He doesn’t actually mind the healthy foods so much, he grumbles about it for form’s sake mostly, but there’s absolutely nothing in the world that makes you feel shittier than sending your grief stricken son into a panic attack because you tried to sneak a cheeseburger after work. Stiles has mostly grown out of the panic attack stage, thank fuck, but just the memory of it is enough to make Dean happy to deal with the rabbit food. Okay, not happy, but not really annoyed either. Sam flips back and forth between finding it amusing and being annoyed that Stiles is the one that got Dean to start eating ‘right’.

”Don’t think I didn’t notice the interesting way you edited our family history.”

Dean makes a face at his salad, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sam just raises an eyebrow, “You know, he’s not actually Bettlejuice, if someone says his name enough times he’s not going to suddenly pop into the kitchen.” Sam’s brow furrows, “Actually ...”

Dean snorts, because, yeah, that’s exactly what he’s trying to avoid. That’s what he’s been avoiding for fucking fourteen years. He lets his eyebrows say all that though, and digs into his salad, crunching happily when he finds little bits of turkey bacon buried at the bottom.

Sam frowns, “What happened between you two? You forgave him for the Purgatory shit and hiding the angel tablet from us-”

”That wasn’t his fault” Dean protests, standing to get more dressing, “you know as well as I do that those stupid magic bricks had some serious mojo behind them. That tablet wanted to be hidden so it made him hide it.”

Sam’s frown deepens, pulling at his forehead in a way that makes him look about a billion years old, “So what could he possibly have done that pissed you off this bad for this long?”

Dean drags a laugh up and out of his mouth, smiles at Sam around his salad, “Do I seem pissed off to you?”

More frownlines. Dean honestly would not even be surprised if Sam frowned so hard one day that he collapsed in on himself like a star. “No?” Sam says, but it sounds like a question, like something that needs an answer. Dean snorts and turns back to his lunch.

There’s the beat of heavy footsteps against the porch and then the front door bangs open. Derek Hale steps into the house with Stiles in a fireman carry over his shoulder. It’s hard to describe the amount of pure unadulterated panic that sight lances through Dean, and he practically jumps out of his chair, “What the fuck happened?”

”Panic attack.” Derek says flatly, laying Stiles out on the couch in the living room. Dean’s heard about Derek - the alpha of his own pack - and some of their little adventures from the word vomit confessions from last night in the car, but he can’t help but note the man’s familiarity with the layout of their house, not to mention his knowledge of Dean’s son. Dean crouches over Stiles, letting these inconsequential thoughts skitter away as he verifies that Stiles is okay, just unconscious. He lifts his hand just in time to catch the bag Sam tosses to him, rescued from the downstairs bathroom. He sets it on the table, it won’t work while Stiles is still unconscious. “What the hell were the two of you doing that sent him into a panic attack?”

Hale crosses his arms across his chest, raises an eyebrow, “Wasn’t with him. Found him.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Dean rubs a hand over his face. He’s way too fucking old for this shit. He drops Stiles’s wrist, “Heartbeat’s even. What do you mean found him? Where was he?”

Derek’s eyebrows wiggle around a little before settling into a scowl, “Side of the road up near the five.”

”Probably wanted to take the car out.” Sam says, sounding almost as nervous as Dean. “Thanks for bringing him here.”

Derek shrugs silently, and on the couch Stiles finally gasps himself awake, coughing and taking huge gulping breaths. Dean presses the bag into his hand, presses him to lean forward, rubbing soothingly up and down his back, making soft shushing noises. He has a regrettable amount of experience with calming these attacks.

Stiles leans into him, and eventually drops the bag, “Sorry” is the first word out of his mouth, and he sounds embarrassed.

”Don’t be an idiot.” Dean says, gathering him up for a tight hug, feeling his own heartbeat settle back to normal.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean always plans on leaving Beacon Hills. Sam makes noises about the ley lines in the area possibly causing a nexus of some kind (which Dean mostly tunes out because what?) but there’s not even a drift of sulfur on the air, nothing that makes his hair stand on end. There’s an older woman who runs a bakery on the west side of town who may have a bit of fairy blood or something in her judging by the way Dean’s seen her snatch a pie right out of midair on multiple occasions, but nothing sinister. It’s actually a really nice town.

But he’s not planning on staying.

He doesn’t know what his plan _is_ , exactly. Only that it involves Sam and the Impala, and his forty-five. Whatever the plan is though, it definitely does not involve staying in this tiny California town that is strangely obsessed with lacrosse.

But then there’s Claudia, and she changes a lot of things.

After their first meeting in the bar Dean doesn’t expect to see her again, only he does, when he’s on a walk through the sparse downtown area the very next afternoon. She’s coming out of the library, greets him happily, starts up - possibly continues? It’s hard to tell - a conversation that carries them through lunch and dinner and right up to her doorstep. She kisses him on the cheek and goes inside, shutting the door behind her with a cheery ‘good night!’ and Dean’s left blinking on her stoop, smiling to himself.

The pattern continues after that. He’s not entirely sure if she’s stalking him at the beginning, he never gets a clear answer on that. It seems suspicious that they always managed to find each other, but then it is a small town. But he knows after about two weeks that he begins to stalk her, just a little. Enough to know to be outside the library when she gets off shift or which of the three Starbucks she’ll get her coffee at in the morning. Dean’s never met another person like her, doesn’t think there is another person like her in the whole world. She is unfairly, impossibly, easy. She snaps in beside him so casually that it’s a little breathtaking for him, because there’s never been a part of his life that’s been easy like this.

Parts of her remind him vaguely of Sam, of Anna, of Charlie and Cassie. But she’s very much her own person. They sleep together eventually, because of course they do. She’s gorgeous and quickly becoming the best friend he’s ever had (Sam and Cas don’t count because they’re family) and Dean likes sex. So does Claudia, and she announces that in the middle of dinner, like some bizarre redo of When Harry Met Sally.

So, yes, they sleep together, but only occasionally, and never when Claudia’s dating someone else. It’s fun, it’s easy. It’s simple and casual. It’s not fraught, it’s not impossible, it’s not epic. It’s soothing maybe, though possibly Dean would be the only living person who could term it such.

Dean realizes he loves her on a Saturday when he’s half-listening to her lecturing some appliance in the kitchen (she doesn’t get along with the toaster or the stove, but her and the oven are ‘buds’ and she claims she would save the food processor before him if the house ever caught on fire. Which is fair because the food processor doesn’t have legs) as he tries to find something for them to watch, even though he knows she’s going to talk through the whole thing until he’s forced to kiss her to shut her up. The knowledge that he loves her settles in him like a balm, and he realizes he’s smiling a little. He waits for a lull in her conversation - with the microwave, he’s almost sure - before he raises his voice enough that she can hear him clearly, “I’m going to get my stuff out of the hotel and move in here.”

There’s not even a pause, “What now? I thought we were going to watch Lord of the Rings?”

”Nah, tomorrow.”

She comes back into the living room with a bowl of popcorn and a microwave pizza, collapses on the couch next to him, “I’d offer to help but you only have a duffle bag. Pretty sure you can carry it on your own.”

He’s still smiling as he reaches for the popcorn, “Yeah, probably.”

Moving into Claudia’s place makes it more or less official. He’s not leaving Beacon Hills. He tells Sam as much, gives him Claudia’s address, and tells him to come visit as soon as he can. He cannot wait for Sam to meet Claudia. Mostly because Sam seems to be convinced that Dean is head over heels in love with her, and Dean really wants to be there when Sam meets Claudia’s current boyfriend.

Once he’s officially moved in he starts setting up protections for the town. Most of it is simple, wards carved into trees, bars of cold steel he buries around the town border, as closely together as he can get them. He strikes up a friendship with the local pastor for easy access to holy water. He even gets an anti-possession charm from Sam, sticks it on a tiny silver chain, and gives it to Claudia. She stares at him, brow furrowed, when she gets it, but puts it around her ankle and doesn’t take it off.

Dean eventually finds a job, and then another, until he’s offered a position with the sheriff's department after he easily disarms the Bradigan kid when the kid tries to rob the bank. This requires a frantic phone call to Sam, who dryly reminds him that their records are completely clean now and their fingerprints are wiped from the system, and have been, as far as they can figure, since that moment when they let Lucifer out of the cage and ended up on the airplane. He starts at the academy at the same time that Claudia moves to full time at the library. There’s about a week where they don’t see each other at all, and it’s early February when Claudia stomps into the sheriff’s office, announces that she’s pregnant, it’s his, men suck, she’s tired of paying so many taxes anyway, and they’re getting married.

Sam laughs so hard over the open phone line that Dean’s forced to hang up on him.

They get married in March, the gold ring settling onto Dean’s finger so easily that he has his first moment of fear, but it vanishes under Claudia’s smile. Their son is born in November. Towards the end of November, thankfully, since it takes them almost a full ten months to pick a name. Claudia insists that his first name should be Hieronim, after her father. Dean wants a Enochian word that means ‘to be safe’, but he can only pronounce it correctly when he takes a moment to actually think about it and Claudia doesn’t even try. Claudia finally points out that Dean can do his middle name, and Hieronim can be his first name, and it isn’t until they write out the whole thing on the paperwork at the hospital that Dean realizes just how cruel they’re being to their poor kid. But at that point he can only giggle exhaustively, bouncing Hieronim in the crook of his arm. Twenty nine hours of labor means they get to name the kid whatever they want, he figures.

Dean is entranced by Hieronim, is more than willing to get up at all hours for feedings or diaper changes. He’s good at it too, figures how to sooth him back to sleep in four minutes flat. Occasionally he’ll catch Claudia smiling smugly to herself, like she’s proud of her ability to trap herself such a good baby daddy. This is usually the cue for Dean to dump the squirming bundle of joy into her lap and teasingly ask her to participate in this whole child rearing business, which generally means that she’ll hug Hieronim to her chest and call him a dirty good for nothing diaper hog. Then he’ll slip into bed with them, pulls the blankets up nice and tight, places a warm hand on his son’s gently rising back, and grin at his best friend before they all fall asleep, Hieronim safe between them.

Dean continues to talk to Sam everyday, sometimes twice, sometimes three times. They have issues. Alert the media. Sam is having what sounds like the time of his life transferring Bobby’s collection of hunting artifacts to the bunker, and cross-referencing and codifying and other geeky things that only he likes. Sam’s the one most concerned about Hieronim’s name situation. Sam has probably subscribed to a whole bunch of child development magazines, and keeps quoting articles about how children relate to their names and blah blah blah, new agey crap. Sam keeps trying out nicknames everytime he comes down, but Hieronim doesn’t exactly shorten easily, and it’s out of desperation that Sam finally decides on Stiles, and by the time the kid’s first birthday rolls around everyone’s mostly forgotten that that’s not his real name.

Everything is going so well. Dean is married to his best friend in the world. His brother is happy and healthy. His son is beautiful, looks and acts so much like his wife that some days it doesn't even feel real. Life isn’t without problems of course, he’s still dealing with what he’s finally ready to admit is a whopping case of PTSD. Claudia knows about it, and tries not to ask about his past, but of course she’s not entirely in control of her mouth, and accidentally sparks one or two of his worst nightmares. Stiles is amazing of course, but raising a kid is exhausting and occasionally enraging and the single most terrifying thing he’s ever done. But mostly, on average, his life is better than it’s been in a decade.

Castiel shows up on a Thursday, a month after Stiles’s second birthday.

In all honest, Dean was completely unsurprised by the fact that neither he nor Sam have heard word one from Cas since the magic tablets worked to seal off Hell. Much like when the original apocalypse was over, and Cas disappeared back to manage heaven, Dean doesn't worry about it overmuch. If Cas were in trouble he could handle himself, and if he can’t he’s still got their numbers, knows where Sam is.

So it makes sense that the first thing out of Dean’s mouth when he opens the door is, “What’s wrong?”

Cas looks, almost uncomfortable, but his voice is exactly the same as it’s always been, deep and gravel, somber, “I require some assistance.”


End file.
